


Talking in Code

by SylvanWitch



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 12:10:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15630432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: It had been a shitty day ending a spectacular clusterfuck of a week, and all he wanted was twelve hours of sleep, a six-pack, and some carefully chosen words that secretly said, “I love you.”Was that too much for a motherfucker to ask in the middle of this goat rodeo the politicians had the sheer brass balls to call a “war”?





	Talking in Code

**Author's Note:**

> I've started re-reading Rusty Bradley's _Lions of Kandahar_ , and it made me nostalgic for my GK fandom days. (Same shit, different war.) Words happened.

The blinking cursor reminded Brad of a wink, like the computer was smirking at him.  His inbox had contained three dick enhancement offers, two come-ons from “Busty Russian Ladies,” and a notification from the IRS that his tax return had been incomplete, and his refund was hung up in bureaucratic limbo.

 

It wasn’t that he really needed the money.  What the hell would he spend it on here?

 

It wasn’t even the irony of his government—the government that goddamned signed his fucking checks—threatening to audit him when he was actively being shot at in Afghanistan, fuck you very much.

 

It was that he didn’t need a dick enhancement (he wasn’t getting much use out of it these days anyway) and didn’t want any kind of lady, Russian, big-chested, or otherwise.

 

What he wanted was a goddamned email from Nate Fucking Fick, and his inbox remained stubbornly empty.  (Brad wasn’t so far gone that he missed the filthy joke hidden in that thought somewhere, but he was too tired and sore and pathetic—goddamned hangdog pussy-ass pathetic—to muster up even a weak laugh.)

 

It had been a shitty day ending a spectacular clusterfuck of a week, and all he wanted was twelve hours of sleep, a six-pack, and some carefully chosen words that secretly said, “I love you.”

 

Was that too much for a motherfucker to ask in the middle of this goat rodeo the politicians had the sheer brass balls to call a “war”?

 

He hadn’t thought so, but then, see above, re: pathetic.

  
Probably, Nate had already moved on.

 

Six hours in a motel room in Pala Mesa didn’t mean forever, even if Nate had whispered Brad’s name like a prayer when Nate had slid home.  Even if they’d come the second time face to face, hands entwined like fucking high school sweethearts, Brad’s heart lodged in his throat and tripping double-time at the look on Nate’s face, which said, “I love you,” as clear as if he’d shouted it gunny-style. 

 

He could still hear the way Nate’s breath had stuttered that second time, little hitching breaths every time Brad had shifted to get deeper, get closer.  Nate’s eyes had been lit up like tracer fire, like every fucking good thing he’d ever wanted had just come home to him at last.

 

That’s what Brad had thought he’d seen in Nate’s face.

 

In Iraq, Brad had believed that he could take one look into Nate’s eyes and know exactly what he wasn’t saying out loud.  It’s part of what had kept Brad awake some of those long, itchy nights in his grave, when he should’ve been sleeping but instead was running through the LT’s various expressions, decrypting them like they were a code that would keep them both alive long enough to figure out how to say things out loud to each other.

 

So, he’d thought what Nate was saying with their hearts on a feedback loop through their sweaty, joined palms was:  _I love you_.

 

But maybe it wasn’t.

 

Maybe Brad had read a lot of things wrong. 

 

The last he’d heard from Nate had been twenty-six days ago, the night before Brad had shipped out.  Brad could barely hear Nate over the background noise of a busy college bar.  Some asshole Ivy League fratbro was shouting about Heisenberg, and Nate sounded embarrassed, but whether by his surroundings or their conversation, Brad hadn’t been able to tell.

  
He couldn’t see Nate’s face through the crap cell phone connection, and the last minutes of his local plan were spinning loose into the long, awkward silence between them broken by what sounded like fourteen dozen co-eds working up to a geek orgy in the background.

 

“Well, I’ve gotta go,” Brad said at last, already trying to shore up the levee of ice around his cramping heart.

 

“Oh.  Okay.  Hey, Brad?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Stay frosty.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“And, uh…”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You know, don’t you?”

 

Brad did know, maybe.  And as a man who made laconic people look loquacious, he could appreciate Nate’s predicament.  Still, he wasn’t going away to _college_ , like some people. 

 

Figuring fuck it, what harm could it do, he might be dead tomorrow, and anyway, was he a fucking recon marine or wasn't he, Brad said, “I lo—.”

 

A series of piercing beeps indicated that he’d run out of minutes before he could finish his sentence. 

 

“Fuck!”  There was a pay phone at the front gate.  He could be there in ten.  Nate would be waiting to hear back from him, maybe.

 

Or maybe not.

 

Nate had called him from a bar in Cambridge.  He hadn’t even bothered to go outside to call.  He’d wanted the buffer of crowd noise, the excuse of buddies at the table around him to keep the conversation from getting too heavy.

 

It was prime deflection mode, and a part of the Iceman could admire the shit out of it.

 

A part of Brad he spent most of the time ignoring had other feelings on the matter.

 

Back in the present, those feelings were raising a tightness in his chest and a heavy, dull feeling in his gut that had nothing to do with the engine sludge calling itself coffee he was drinking.

 

Resigning himself to a tepid shower and three hours of semi-uninterrupted sleep, Brad went to log off.

 

A happy ding froze his movement.  Ice crawled up his chest from his gut.  He swallowed the hope ruthlessly, snorted at himself, shook his head, and went to log off again.

 

Somehow, his mouse clicked on the envelope icon instead.

 

_Brad:_

_It’s cold here already, if you can believe it, and the trees are changing.  I think you’d like it.  Maybe some time you can visit to see for yourself.  Say what you will about Heisenberg-spouting fratbros, the draft beer is worth it even if the company sucks._

_They talk a lot about theory in my classes, about how to “manage” human resources in wartime.  What they mean is how I should manage you.  What position you should be in.  How I should use you to my advantage.  How much I can eke out of you before you’re used up._

_I get into a lot of “debates” with righteous intellectual elites who haven’t got the first fucking idea of who you are or why you fight.  But I know you.  The rest of these people haven’t got a fucking clue._

_Yesterday, a girl told me I should be ashamed for killing men in war.  All I could think was that there is nothing— nothing—I’m ashamed of._

_There are things I’d do again.  People I miss.  I know you know what I mean, don’t you?_

_Next time you’re stateside, look me up for a beer._

_Semper Fi,_

_Nate_

Brad read the letter three times, until he had it by heart—the part that told Brad that Nate was sorry he’d called from a bar, that he wanted to get Brad in interesting positions and use him, that he knew Brad better than anyone else, that he wasn’t ashamed of what they had, that he expected to see Brad again.

 

It wasn’t as good as locking eyes across the hood of a Humvee. 

 

It wasn’t nearly as good as looking at Nate sweat-soaked and fucked-out on a bed in Pala Mesa, Brad’s jizz still trickling out of him, glassy eyes dazed, lips kiss-swollen, hands tangled together, holding on.

 

But between the lines, Nate’s note said _don’t get dead_ and _come back to me_ as clearly as if they’d been able to look at one another directly.  For two guys who didn’t talk in words, it was practically a fucking marriage proposal.

 

Before he could overthink it, Brad hit reply.

 

_Nate:_

_Teasing me with draft beer.  Nice, man.  The beer here is piss-warm at best.  Those genius classmates of yours want to manage us, they should see about getting us some decent refrigeration.  I look forward to explaining this to them in person next time I’m over your way._

_As for being ashamed, fuck her.  You provide a vital service.  You matter way more than she ever will.  I’d trust you to manage us anywhere, anytime._

_I know exactly what you mean about doing things and people._

_Anyway, don’t study too hard and turn into one of those pussy liberal fucks._

_Stay frosty,_

_Brad_

 

Brad deleted Nate’s email and his own response, covering their asses.

 

The guy next in line for an open laptop coughed ostentatiously, and Brad realized he was hogging screen-time.

 

He paused for a second and then fired off one last email.

 

_To the dickheads at the IRS:_

_Fuck you.  See below for further details._

 

And he signed it with his official USMC email signature, sure that they’d track down his location and get his message loud and clear.

 

Then, that last bit of code-talking done, he logged off.

 


End file.
